


Five times TMI ruined the mood, and once when it didn't...

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, graphic bodily functions, tmi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just what it says on the tin...</p><p>For this prompt on the sherlockbbc_fic meme:  <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9640.html?thread=46813864#t46813864">http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9640.html?thread=46813864#t46813864</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times TMI ruined the mood, and once when it didn't...

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my older fics in the fandom, moved here from my writing LJ.

1.) New Scotland Yard, A Women’s Room, 16:45 pm, May 23rd

“It isn’t sexist, John! Statistically, there are fewer women employed at the Yard, therefore there will be a lower risk of being interrupted in the women’s lav.”

John was fairly certain that there was a flaw in Sherlock’s logic somewhere, but damned if he could find it while his lover was so thoroughly snogging his brains out against the handicap stall door. It had been a long day--not because of any cases but because of the barely contained sexual frustration that had been simmering since their attempt at a tryst that morning. Lestrade’s call had stopped the action mid-blowjob, Sherlock shooting to his feet and John flopping back on the sofa, knowing that he was doomed to a day of blue balls and dirty thoughts. What he hadn’t counted on, however, was Sherlock’s touching, his whispered promises, the brief and smoldering glances that did nothing to abate the half-stock John seemed to be doomed to finish the day with. Until, it seemed, Scotland Yard beckoned. The meeting with Lestrade had been brief and Sherlock had wasted no time in dragging John into the women’s lav just off the file room, two floors from Lestrade’s office. John had just enough time to hiss in anticipation as Sherlock’s kisses moved southward, nimble fingers unfastening stiff denim, before the sliding-thump sound of the bathroom door sent ice through his veins.

Sherlock managed glare as John yanked on his dark curls, forcing his head back and away from the promised land. _What?_ his raised brow demanded.

 _Don’t be stupid!_ John’s grimace replied. He made a “just wait” motion as the sound of the sink rushed through the lav.  
“Oh, God, I hate my uterus,” an unfamiliar voice groaned.

Sally Donovan’s voice replied, making both John and Sherlock roll their eyes. Of course, it would be her in there, too. “I’ve got some paracetamol in my desk if you need it.”

“Won’t do me any good. I’ve got endo pretty bad. Clots the size of golf balls every month.”

“Ugh, I know what you mean. I’ve got one of those IUDs to deal with mine. Otherwise, swear to God, it’d be like that scene in _The Shining_ when the elevator doors open every time I get my period.”

“Christ. I leaked.”

“You can’t tell. Your skirt’s dark enough to hide it and besides, you’re off in ten.” More shuffling, the sound of paper tearing, then Sally’s voice again. “Damn it! I dropped my tampon in the toilet! Fanfuckingtastic!”

“I’ve got a pad...”

“That’ll do.”

John tried his best not to get visuals as the women talked but his doctor-brain supplied helpful, textbook images of just what they were discussing. Sherlock rested his head near John’s now-uninterested cock and sighed gustily. The women chatted for a few more moments and they left in a cloud of laughter about Anderson’s mustache. “Um, yeah, so... Home?” Sherlock nodded, defeated.

2.) Sherlock’s Bedroom, His Bed, In Fact, 00:22, June 1st

“Oh, Christ, John!”

“You’re surprisingly religious when you’ve got fingers up your arse...”

“Quit smirking. It’s unbecoming.” Sherlock’s attempt at an imperious sniff was lost in a groan as John gave those aforementioned fingers a twist and gentle push, teasing the tender bump that seemed to short-circuit speech centers in the detective’s brain.

“Give it to me, Sherlock,” John rasped, lips brushing the moist, red head of his lover’s arousal. “Don’t hold back.” He darted his tongue out to taste the beads of moisture seeping from the cock at his lips.

“Oh, yes! Oooooooh, yes!”

Both men froze, then craned their necks to peer at each other. “Wasn’t me,” they both said at once.

“Who’s been a naughty little boy?” _Smack!_ “Dirty, naughty, boy! _Smack, smack, smack!_ “Are you going to clean Mistress’s boots with that foul tongue of yours?”

“Oh, Christ,” Sherlock groaned again, this time in thinly veiled embarrassment and a shade of disgust.

John gingerly extricated his fingers and, giving Sherlock’s softening erection a lingering, wistful sigh, admitted to himself that even his own raging libido was felled by Mrs. Hudson’s cries of pleasure.

3.) Back Seat of a Cab, Three Blocks From Home, 14:22, June 15th

“John,” Sherlock murmured, not looking up from his phone, “let’s order Thai for dinner.”

John tensed pleasantly. He had learned--rather quickly, in fact--that Sherlock’s personal code for feeling amorous was the suggestion of Thai food. He had no idea why and honestly didn’t want to know if his boyfriend associated coconut curry soup with getting laid; he just accepted the code phrase for what it was and reaped the benefits. “Sounds good,” John remarked, striving for a casual tone as he watched London scroll by the cab’s windows.

“I was thinking of something a bit...different than my usual. Something hotter.”

John felt his cheeks flush. “What’s wrong with your usual, then?”

“Not a thing. I...I love my usual.” Sherlock sent him a sharp glance. “I just feel like something a bit different tonight.”

“Just to be clear, you do mean still having, um, Thai with me, right?”

“Of course, you idiot. Having a different sort of Thai, though.”

“Oi,” the cabbie broke in. “Avoid that new place that just opened on Marylebone, eh? My brother was tellin’ me how he found a plaster in his soup there.”

“Um.” John ignored Sherlock’s derisive snort and smiled tightly at the cabbie in the rearview mirror. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Anyway,” the cabbie went on, apparently thinking that John’s response was invitation to a conversation, “don’t know as how you’d be wanting to eat Thai anyway. All them take away places, they’re not clean,a re they? Always being written up for health code problems. I got me a nasty parasite once, eating some mish mash from a take away down in Southwark. Had the trots for days.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled noisily through his nose. “That’s...too bad,” John said faintly. Bowel issues were Sherlock’s Achille’s heel. Rotting corpses, blood, tissue, insects... Sherlock could handle any number of things that most people would find off putting but mention a touch of wind or show him an add for laxative, and it was as good pouring water on a match for his...everything. Libido, appetite, mood.... John sighed and reached for Sherlock’s fingers to give him a distracting squeeze, but it was too late. The cabbie was off and running about the parasite he’d picked up (John was of the opinion the man’s xenophobia led him to blame the take away shop more than anything but he held his tongue for fear of encouraging even more vivid descriptions). By the time they reached 221, Sherlock was pale and breathing heavily through his nose, bolting from the cab before it came to a complete halt, leaving John to pay (nothing new there).

“Your friend alright, mate?”

John couldn’t help his glower. “He will be. I, however, won’t be having Thai for a few days.”

“Not that bad a thing, is it?”

“Tell that to my carpal tunnel syndrome.”

4.) Mycroft’s Ubiquitous Black Car, 19:01, June 20th  
“Really, John, I don’t see why this is a problem.” Mycroft swept a glance over his ‘guest’s’ suit and tie, smiling thinly. “Sherlock will wait.”

“Not the point,” John growled. “You _know_ it’s our anniversary, Mycroft.”

“Mmm. Quite the thing, really, for my brother to be celebrating an anniversary at all. Not his usual style He must care for you very much.”

John sighed inwardly. Here it comes, he thought, the big brother talk. Lord knows he had had enough of them over the years with Harry’s girlfriends so it was time, he supposed, for Karma to make him sit through one. “Go on, then.”

“Hm? Oh, this isn’t a prolonged visit, John. Sherlock is ignoring my attempts at contact and it is very important that he knows his appointment with Doctor Benjamin is on Thursday at ten a.m.”

“...you kidnap me to be a human appointment card? Lovely.” John huffed a sigh and let his head fall back against the seat. “May I leave now?”

“Don’t you want to know what the appointment is for?” Mycroft asked, one brow gently arched. “Most people would be quite curious.”

“If Sherlock wanted me to know,” John replied over his inner voice screaming ‘Yes, yes you fool! Ask him!’, “he would have told me.”

“Mmmmm.”

Silence reigned as the car slowed to a halt in front of the French place Sherlock had selected. John gave Mycroft’s faintly smiling countenance one more glare, then caved. “Fine. What is it? Some dire disease? A dental appointment? Electrolysis?”

“What on _earth_ does my brother do when I’m not looking? No, nothing so...drastic...as all that. He simply has an appointment with a physician to see about a course of Viagra.”

John could smell the smoke coming from the grinding gears in his brain. “What?”

“Mmmm. Apparently, and this is pure conjecture but I know my brother, he is concerned that his own performance is lacking in comparison to yours...”

“Excuse me?”

“He hasn’t said as much outright, but, forgive me for being indelicate, I notice things. And you are far more...amorous and forward than his previous partners. And while he is enthusiastic, at least according to what I’ve, ah, heard, the fact remains that he is considerably less experienced than you and most of those encounters were during his heavy using days...” Mycroft spread his hands, trailing off suggestively. “Ah, here we are. Good evening, Doctor Watson.”

John made it through dinner feeling a bit numb around the edges, smiling when he was supposed to, sipping champagne and eating most of his meal, but Sherlock was not the world’s only consulting detective for nothing. Over dessert, he narrowed his eyes and _deduced_ as John sat silently, fork dragging patterns in his tarte tatin. “You smell of your own cologne and shampoo, your own antiperspirant and laundry soap, but it’s overlaid with something a bit pricier than your usual fare. Presence of essential oils rather than synthetics. Faint tinge of leather overlaying even that Mycroft.” Sherlock pressed his lips together in a thin line and gripped his fork so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “What the Hell did my brother say, John?”

“Just...reminding you to see Doctor Benjamin on Thursday,” John managed, staring at the mess he had made of apples and pastry. All thoughts he had had of Sherlock and after dinner activities was supplanted by the mental picture of his lover popping a little blue pill, feeling somehow lacking... it made John feel sick to his stomach. “Have I, um, done anything to make you feel... I mean, have I...”

Sherlock’s jaw clicked audibly. “It’s for an experiment, John! I knew you’d refuse if I asked you to write me a scrip for the damned stuff.”

“So you don’t feel like you’re, um, behind, so to speak, when it comes to sex drive? Like I’m...um, more aggressive than you’re used to?” The silence was more than enough of an answer. “Right. Okay then.”  
Sherlock crumpled his napkin and closed his eyes, the warm spark of pleasure that had been growing in his belly all day dying a sudden, cold death. “I’m going to kill Mycroft.”

5.) The Cock and Ass (no, really...), 20:05, July 12th

Sherlock was loathe to admit it, but he really did enjoy watching John be ‘one of the lads’. He himself was miserable (too much smoke, the smell of stale beer and spilled liquor, wave after wave of cheap scent and fake laughter...it was almost overload) but watching John drink a lager, joke with some mates from uni, smile politely but turn down a waitress... It made Sherlock’s heart do a funny little jig. _He’s mine. Yes, that man right there, the one who can seem so normal but secretly loves chasing criminals and facing danger, the one who just jumped when a woman pinched his bum but did the same thing to me just a few hours ago... He’s mine._ “Oi, Sherlock! C’mere!” one of John’s friends shouted over the general din. “Johnny boy says you’re his boyfriend!”

Sherlock bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “We’re...together, yes,” he agreed, sitting gingerly on the rather grubby bench running the length of the booth. “John, are you drunk?”

“Not nearly enough,” the friend (Brian? Bran? Bedevere? Brian, Sherlock decided, whether he wanted to be Brian or not) chortled and John simply shrugged, pressing his thigh to Sherlock’s. “We never would’ve taken Johnny for a poof,” Brian was saying, signaling for another round.

“No offense,” the one Sherlock remembered as Dave added. “Sorry, Johnny. No offense.”

“None taken,” John muttered into his lager. “So! Darts?”

His attempt at diversion went unheeded. Dave rattled on, “Yeah, ol’John, he had more tail than any man should!”

“That weekend in Paris, remember?” Brian crowed, and John groaned into his drink. “How many was it?”

“Two,” Dave said, grinning.”  
John sighed. “Four. Marie. Bibiana, Laura and Stephanie.”  
“Four women over two days? Busy, John,” Sherlock remarked dryly, raising one brow. He’d known John had an...active...youth so it wasn’t too much of a surprise...

“At once,” Brian cried. “He had four at once!”

“Would’ve been five,” John said flatly, “but Dave pulled Margot.” He didn’t look happy, Sherlock noted, and could feel his lover tense at his side.  
“Maybe we should go?” Sherlock murmured. His enjoyment of John’s enjoyment was fading fast; something was coming, something that would upset and bother John and the detective felt the first bubbles of annoyance and outright dislike for the other two men begin to surface.  
John nodded, made to shift down, but Brian penned him in one one side and Dave flopped down next to Sherlock, effectively hemming them into the booth. Two more men, old medic buddies, John sighed, slid in across from them. “Here we go,” John breathed near Sherlock’s ear, and they were off to the races, as the saying goes.

Never had 221 B looked more inviting to the pair. Sherlock made a beeline for the sofa and John for the armchair, both of them going still as a corpse, neither turning on so much as a lamp as the evening seeped from their bones. “So,” John said after a long silence. “I know you’re aware of my, ah, reputation with women...”

“How many men?” Sherlock asked softly. The answer, John knew,w as important.

“Counting you?”

“Before me.”

“Four. Andy Goren when we were fifteen, Neil Aames when I was 18 and he was 20, Bill Murray--army mate, not the actor--”  
“Yes, I know.”

“And Sam Picton. Still army. He was ...well, still is, I suppose, an American. We just had a bit of a weekend one leave.” John cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. “You?”

“Ten men, one serious relationship before you. Two women.”

John took that cue. “Ah. So, um, you want to know about the women?”

“Based on the conversation at the pub, there have been at least twenty...”

“Since the age of fourteen,” John said on a sigh, “I’ve been with fifty six women. Most of them one at a time.”

Sherlock blinked, stared, then blinked again. “I don’t even _know_ fifty six women.”

“It’s my past, love. I’m not on the pull anymore. And the number of women has nothing to do with whether or not I really love you, or really am bi, or--”

“I’m not an idiot, John. I just...need to go lay down.”

John closed his eyes and sighed again as Sherlock went to his bedroom and shut the door. “Right,” he muttered. “Message received.”

+1 221B Baker Street, 22:18, September 21

“The victim couldn’t have gotten pierced willingly. His wife and his lover both confirm that his foreskin was exceptionally sensitive. Such a piercing would not have been the man’s doing.”  
John stared, cup of tea halfway to his lips. “Pardon?” The rattle of information had come out of the blue, startling John into stillness.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes almost audibly. “In addition to the typical sensitivity of the foreskin, the victim had extra nerves in the area. According to his lover, she was able to bring him to orgasm via foreskin stimulation alone.” Sherlock looked thoughtfully at some invisible spot in the middle distance. “I’m fairly sensitive but that...hmmmm.”

John set his tea cup down carefully and swallowed, frowned, then cleared his throat. Nope, the odd lump was still there. “Are you considering getting pierced in the name of science?”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled and his lips pursed. “No,” he said finally. “That would be stupid. I’d rather not have some stranger handling my penis in order to pierce my foreskin.” He paused, then his scrunched up expression dissolved into a bright, excited smile. “John! You’re a doctor--”  
“No!”  
“I have above average sensitivity in my foreskin, based on anecdotal research, and the victim was apparently very sensitive as well. If I can tolerate the pain of a piercing, there’s a chance that he could have, as well, and I will need to re-examine my deductions! John...” his voice dropped to a low, rumbling register as he leaned in, pressing his knees against John’s, forcing the doctor back in the armchair. “John, you don’t want me to be _wrong,_ do you?”

“Sherlock...” His mouth was dry, his heart beating hard. All this talk of foreskins, he mused, was getting him more hot and bothered than he’d usually admit. “I’d prefer you unpierced.”

Sherlock’s pale eyes regarded John thoughtfully. “Even if you were the one piercing me?”

“I can do a lot of things in the name of love, Sherlock, but piercing your foreskin is out of bounds for me.”

Sherlock leaned in closer then, straddling John’s lap in the process. “But John,” he purred, “just think of the possibilities. I’m already so sensitive, and you know how much I love it when you play with me _there._ I could let you do it for hours, touching and tugging and oh, that thing you do with your tongue...”

John barely managed to swallow his groan as Sherlock’s teeth nipped at his ear, the tip of the detective’s tongue darting in to tease and gently lave. John shifted his hips, unable to be quiet then as his erection rubbed against Sherlock’s, hot and hard and _perfect_ even through layers of clothing and awkward angles. He wasn’t sure who started it but soon, fingers were fumbling with zips and buttons, hands grasping heated flesh. John barely thought it through before pushing Sherlock up, arching his hips to brush the head of his cock against the detective’s. “Testing sensitivity,” he panted, and Sherlock chuckled breathlessly. Another push and slide, and they were on the floor, trousers and pants around knees and ankles.

Sherlock pushed himself onto his elbows and watched as John pressed the heads of their cocks together and, using thumb and forefinger, pulled their foreskins over and down. He hissed a breath and let his head fall back. His own, longer foreskin slid smoothly over John’s shorter one, the moist red tips of their erections disappearing beneath velvet-soft flesh as John began to gingerly, then more certainly, work them together, his hands squeezing and fingers testing, pressing, drawing moans and gasped curses and prayers from both of their throats. Sherlock nearly cried out as John lightly raked his nails, then gently pinched, his foreskin. “I think,” the detective breathed, “I’m not going to get pierced.”

“Too much?”

“No,” he gasped, “I’d...I’d be insufferable, always demanding you play with it. Oh, God!” He arched, pressing into John’s fist, their docked erections slipping and sliding apart as he came in great spurts, John’s groaned release a moment later slicking their bellies and fists with sticky ejaculate. Sherlock let his eyes flutter closed as John reluctantly pulled away, only to have them fly open a moment later at the touch of his lover’s tongue on his cock. “Too much,” he panted. “Too much!”  
John nodded, rocking back onto his haunches as he looked down at Sherlock with hooded eyes. “How did we go from talking about a dead man’s piercing to this?”

“You’re insatiable.”  
“Pot, kettle...”  
Sherlock pushed himself up into a sitting position and smiled crookedly. “I have a case about a man with nipple piercings...”

John felt his face heat and his cock give a weak twitch. “Shower first.”  
Sherlock nodded and was on his feet before John could even chuckle.


End file.
